the typewriter rattles and clacks, laughing at the mess. Remnants of life pushed aside to make room. Mockingly sure to be typing the same story, over and over, with the same bruises and the same nicotine stained hands. The last dollar of gasoline and 2 packs of smokes With 7 hours til dawn finds Shaved legs and anticipation perched on the front steps of maybe. Waiting eagerly to Greet a thinning version of familiarity. Road weary, Determined to see, dark circles taking up residence where the smile fades. While Wrapped in the dawn embrace, the sorrow that had been squatting on the heart, leaked just enough to relieve a bit of pressure. Not long leads to exploring the edges of parts unknown before, In a way that felt like home. Deceptively exceeding expectations. flashes of what could be Lit up the beauty of what is. Soft silky avocado green moments, that have been Spiced with fresh picked habanero peppers. Life gently caressing soft skin allowing castle guards to doze unencumbered in the warm sun. Hope quietly finding new cracks to peek through From where ever it stays these days. Time slowed so imagination could, Run away with things. But that stanza wasn’t long enough. Darkness showed up uninvited. Forgot to lock the door. Carrying the shadows Tossing them about Pointing out that loneliness Is way more painful when you aren’t actually alone. Hope couldn't keep watching. The aftermath was the headache Of a caffeine crash and the wafting stench of neglected trash. sheets stained by poetic sweat. Pillow flattened by a wish that left taking everything almost had. leaving behind the probably don’ts. Now the silence is quieter And the air smells like stale cigarettes And there's a blank spot on the table Where the typewriter used to rattle and clack.
